a neon sign that tells the time

music: pretty little bird (the saint of vancouver), mark berube



i live in the quiet of the fourth floor library. i am watching strangers and i write about honeybees and god and then think about goodness. i split-second see my yesterday faces all around and i'm reminding myself how much time and space have slipped away. and they tell me that it's spring, but it isn't really. mittens, salt sidewalks, new piles of snow blank pages. don't worry about the next. there is no need to worry for the next. insomnia won't leave my room until two in the morning so i write pages and pages after midnight. cool fingertips and scalding coffee can smooth over the bruises under gritty eyes. so we soldier on, alone against these words, and i'm crossing lines off my list quicker than i add them.
this (oh, this) will be over before i need to give up.